


Thalassophobia

by V_mum



Category: Hyper Light Drifter
Genre: Anxiety, Blood, Drifter's POV Exclusively, Gen, Illness, Not explicitly romantic at all, Other, Phobias, Racial Tension, Stream of Consciousness, The Blue Skinned People, Trust Issues, but they're pretty domestic, even if drifters kinda a grouchy baby
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-06
Updated: 2021-01-06
Packaged: 2021-03-16 20:08:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,835
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28587753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/V_mum/pseuds/V_mum
Summary: The East: Water-Based Obstacles, and The Drifter who neither swims nor sleeps.
Relationships: The Drifter & The Guardian (Hyper Light Drifter), The Drifter/The Guardian (Hyper Light Drifter)
Comments: 3
Kudos: 19





	Thalassophobia

**Author's Note:**

> More or less a thought experiment on why The Drifter takes damage in-game from water contact, with the exception of walking through shallows no deeper than his ankles. And also I love dynamic stuff between drifter and guardian, and moment to moment stuff. I might write more things in the future for HLD, I'm not sure. there definitely isn't enough content for it- I've read (without exaggeration) every HLD fic on Ao3. And i CRAVE more content. 
> 
> For now, my contribution to this painfully small fandom is this one shot.

Danger  _ never  _ slept. 

And perhaps that is why The Drifter chose, too, not to sleep. 

It could be mistaken as being  _ dramatic _ , to say that danger never slept. But it was only the reality. 

Danger was not  _ only  _ malicious entities and starved or frightened beasts.

Danger was thoughtlessness, mindlessness, accidents. Danger, too, was the inanimate; thoughtless mindless  _ things _ that  _ caused  _ accidents. 

A falling boulder does not  _ wish  _ to harm you any more than an avalanche or lightning strike. And while they do not wish to harm you- do not wish to move at all, they still will. 

Falling rocks do not sleep. Danger never sleeps. 

This is a sentiment Drifter has come to acknowledge in his travels, because even in the relative ‘safety’ one considers in their own camp- that is only an illusion. The cold and the hungry and the sleepless things will still invade your ‘safe’ camp, and they will do so unhesitantly, even while you sleep. 

And in acknowledging this sentiment, Drifter has come to perhaps disregard the notion of sleep as long as he can. Because like many, many other dangers,  _ Illness _ does not sleep. And while he rests, it will continue to knaw steadily through his lungs. 

While hunting through the area for a source of food does not make much progress in alleviating the illness itself, it is still progress for him, progress for his body; to be kept alive another meal’s time, just a while longer to search for a true remedy.

Technically, Drifter supposed, one could say the same about sleep. That it is a necessary progress for his battered body, a progress he must make in the course of searching for his cure. 

Perhaps the forgoing of sleep can be a consideration that Drifter wishes, like danger, to not sleep. To not think, as he so often finds himself busy for the specific purpose of preventing  _ over- _ thinking things which he cannot change. To not become an unbreathing thing in this world, as simple as still water, as real as stone, as unharmed as distant clouds in the evening. 

And really, if not breathing is any mark of an inanimate object, untouched by doubts or restlessness or hunger- well, then perhaps Drifter truly is becoming inanimate one step at a time. He can  _ barely  _ breathe at the best of times. Although, a falling stone or lightning strike cannot  _ cough  _ for fear of not breathing. And those things also need not eat- so here the Drifter stands, anyway. Hunting for food.

His hunt for food leads his senses to follow the coppery scent that hangs low in the air. 

A leathered sack hanging at the waist of his skirt is already weighted with water-growing tubers and greens which Drifter had sorted and scavenged over most of the day, whilst traveling The East Zone. Finding food as one goes is important, for the sake of time, but that did not mean it was  _ easy _ to find food in The East Zone. 

Per his own skillset, it was one of the hardest places to find proper food. The plant life could be dangerous- high in whatever chemicals could spawn explosive blooms. Many of the plant life was often poisonous if not otherwise hazardous. 

So of what few plants he had learned from the scant Otter Folk survivors to be edible and safe for most up-right sentient species, Drifter  _ always  _ took the time to harvest, even is he had just fought a battle a moment before. Careful, of course, in his best attempts to harvest the edible parts of the plant without outright pulling or killing it, if he could help it. Mindful and sustainable harvesting was something he had learned, in hopes of being able to harvest the same plant a season later, right where he left it. If he was lucky, of course, and no other danger had befallen the plant.

_ Protein _ in the East was  _ much harder  _ to come by, at least for Drifter. Not for a lack of hunting and tracking skills- but as trying to hunt most creatures on the wide, exposed slabs of stone pillars and crystalline open water could make such a feat difficult for anyone. 

Anyone except, of course, the native Otters. 

When their pray spotted them for the lack of cover, the Otters had the helpful ability to chase them down in the water in which their prey fled to. 

Instead, when Drifter’s pray disappeared into the deep waters to flee him, he had only the ability to scowl from behind his mask.

So perhaps while Drifter had plenty enough vegetarian harvest from the day, the bittersweet scent of copper and iron in the air left him hopeful that perhaps he would find something worth hunting- and, with luck, too injured to make it to the water before he could actually get his hands upon it. He could save his harvest for tomorrow, perhaps. Drifter always preferred a high protein diet, given half the opportunity. It was a lot of work to replace so much blood as he spilled, often only by attempting to breathe. 

The frequency of such struggles for breath leaving him heaving blood from his chest was something Drifter opted not to think about in the moment, given he had to track something by that exact smell. He had to instead focus on carefully tracking the scent in the direction it began to grow most strong. 

He was far enough East in the zone that the fresh water, fed by the northern falls and the springs far, far deep underground was becoming brackish as the salt of the sea mingled in. In the night, being so far South-East was all the more unsettling. 

The distant ocean horizon was unblemished by another sign of land, only distinguishable by the two somewhat off shades of black differentiating Sea from Sky as the two grew near one another. 

The thought of endless, deep water where one would never find the sea floor was enough to send an itch into his bones of danger and warning, even if his companion bot was silent and not sending him alarmed pings of such a danger. 

Not quite  _ worse _ , but much more actively problematic, was the salt itself. The breeze that dragged in from the ocean felt almost sharp with imagined salt particles, and the scent alone made detection difficult. He knew the heady scent of blood was under it, and so he could pick it out from the mingle of salt, but if he hadn't already known of the scent’s existence, it would be a more difficult task to recognize it under the scented mask. 

The water was bad enough, to get wet; it weighed his cloaks, and sapped his warmth, and could drag him down fast into the underwater city, so empty of its butchered people there would surely be no one awake in these outskirts to ever pull his body back to the surface ever again. But the  _ salt  _ only seemed to make the thought of it worse.

When Drifter paused, looking back in the dark of the night, he could make out one of the raised aquifers behind him, and the flat platforms he had traveled to get so far, occasionally taken with a running start to dash over the longer gaps. 

When he looked ahead again, the platforms ahead were ever so slightly under the surface of the water. Shallow as it was, it made him re-weigh his hunt for warmer-blooded food. 

Falling into water and having to claw his way out again if he could manage was enough of an issue. His clothes would be soaked- the night would be freezing- who knew what lurked under the surface with an itch to feed as strong as his own. And the thought of the weight of several feet of water, to bear down on his already weak lungs, and the absence of even the air itself to breathe during a surprise coughing fit. 

And of course, the irritating salt. Surely, if he did not sink and drown, it would  _ burn  _ his recently bandaged, still fresh injuries in an unholy way. And his coats would already be sodden and heavy- but even long after they dried, they would  _ stink  _ of the brackish salt. Possibly for weeks, even.

He supposed, though, that he hadn’t had a proper meal of iron and meat since he had come to The East. Anemia was not something The Drifter was equipped to deal with, when he lost as much blood as he did. And to the best of his knowledge, any plant that grew here in the east with enough protein in it to be of worth would  _ likely  _ attempt to eat  _ him  _ first. If, of course, it didn't blow up in his face before either of them had the chance.

If he looked further ahead- actively preventing his gaze from turning to stare at the endless sea and worsening his already steadily fraying nerves- he could just make out a bank. A crop of the water loving, brackish-growing trees. 

That… boded well. Either the land here below the water was shallow enough for trees to root, or the outskirts of the city had buildings that reached up high enough for the trees to settle. 

It helped settle Drifter’s nerve enough that he decisively settled to continue his hunt. He swept the sides of his cloak tighter, as if it might help keep him clean of the mildly battering salted wind, and he dashed across the gap before him. 

The tows of his boots splash into the shallow water first, followed almost immediately by his heels, and there's a pause as he takes in the actual depth. Just above his ankles. How unfortunate. 

The gentle swish of water now accompanies his trudge forward, just as his gaze must now strain to make out the edges of the platform below the obscuring water’s surface. The edges bleed into the black depth of water in a way that returns the itch to his bones. 

The flat platform occasionally becomes a different one, leaving a sharp step much like a stair between it and the next. Occasionally, upward until the shallow water is only a few inches high- and others, dropping so suddenly that Drifter is marginally displeased with an unexpected foot shoved knee-deep into salt water. 

_ Just  _ irritatingly high enough to raise past the lip of his boot and quickly fill them full of brine. A long, drawn exhale follows sharply from him, and his companion bot gives a little flutter of concern, but eventually Drifter steps his other leg into the water as well. Allowing it to uncomfortably swell with water, Drifter stands for just a moment in the disagreeable knee-deep wetness. Then tredges forward again, because he has now sacrificed two dry pairs of boots for this, and he will not be turned away now after his losses.

This sentiment is  _ deeply  _ questioned not long afterward, when Drifter cannot see the flat surface under such deep night water, and takes a blind step off what was apparently the edge of the low platform. 

He is almost instantly sucked under the surface, his light-weight, thin armer enough to pull him down. The sharp inhale of water, rushing into his throat with a salty burn to match the feeling of wet-fire singing at his open injuries through his clothes, is enough to make him start coughing blindly.

The hard edge of the next platform presses into his chest. He has not sunk  _ far  _ and the gap between the low platform and the next one was small enough he’d barely have need of dashing, if only he could have seen it under the dark, lapping ocean. 

He hauls himself onto the new platform, and makes the sorry mistake of attempting to breathe with his soaked mask still on- a mistake he makes almost any time he falls into the water in The East. No air reaches his gasping breath, only more salt and more water, making his chest and throat fall tight together, even as he claws his fingers against his face to tear the face covering down to breathe.

The coughing fit is not a surprise, but a body-shaking one nonetheless. He wonders if he coughs up more saltwater than he does blood, seeing the dark smudges swirl in the water under his choking face, once his ragged breathing stills. He can't be sure. 

Irritable, he finds his shaking feet underneath him, water now once again only ankle-deep. Drifter proceeds to check his blade and gun for damage, even knowing that they are waterproof, despite their  _ welder  _ not being so. 

His harvest of plants are well, too, but he imagines when he gets to eating them that they will be  _ unfortunately oversalted _ . Especially seeing the bag he’s stored them in is an uncomfortably sodden weight of saltwater, even after he lets it drain. 

It is a very  _ brief  _ dip in the water; less than even a minute. But it is enough that he is thoroughly wet, thoroughly seasoned with salt, and quickly very, very cold. What makes matters worse is that now Drifter is unwilling to stomach his salty, soggy harvest at the moment; even if he knows they will be  _ fine  _ once given time to dry. Now, though, he  _ truly _ wants to find that scent of blood. If not out of spite, then out of absolute desire to have an unsalted, unsoggy meal.

Determined, he continues. 

When his heel first hits sand instead of hard stone, he feels a sense of relief. It was, in fact, a land mass. 

As Drifter takes the next steps, the water grows further and further shallow until he is at last standing on what can be considered a bank of an island, with a pattern of trees around him, reaching into the sand and dirt and salt with roots reminiscent of clawed fingers. 

The scent of copper has grown strong and fresh, so much so that Drifter has finally drawn the hilt of his sword under his cloak- in case his hope for injured prey is in fact an injured Dirk or Frog that somehow escaped amidst his own blade prior that day. He leaves the blade unsummoned under his cloak, however, to avoid giving away his position in the dark with casting, neon light.

As he pushes forward amidst the trees, and fewer and fewer of them stand between him and his goal, the warm flood of a low fire’s light settles into Drifter’s acknowledgement. With it settles disappointment, and a preparedness for a fight. Still, he does not trigger the blade, in the hopes that perhaps he will be able to handle this as quietly as possible. He can only hope whatever enemy has scraps of food to steal, but if they had fled from him mid-fight, that is unlikely. He would not have given any enemies the chance to scramble for their supplies today.

He does, however, still his blade wielding hand once he stands in the sharp shadow of a tree. The Drifter will have no use for it now, he should hope, that he sees the camp itself.

The low fire was built only a foot from the far-side of the island, the makeshift camp settled around it and positioned in the far direction of the horizon, and the much closer beach. 

One of the near-by trees has been felled, most of it likely fed into the fire. The stump is cleanly cut in a sharp single swipe; such a detail that announces the one who’d done the act wields a lighted blade like his own. 

And of course, proving that deduction correct, is The Guardian, settled calmly on a round of the fallen tree that has not yet been chopped into firewood.

The disappointment climaxes and plateaus evenly at the observation that the scent of blood is  _ not  _ The Guardian, or some unknown enemy- but is in fact the butchered marsh deer. 

Which is somewhat surprising, as drifter had not thought marsh deer could be so far into The East. He had only seen them in the mid-range of the south and east’s borderland, where the trees grew biggest and strongest.

His only guess must be that Guardian had caught it preemptively, and brought it so far- the farthest East point- or at least, farthest east Drifter has ever found. It is a very long, long way to carry an entire deer.

Disappointed and sodden, Drifter carefully begins to pull his mask up over his face once again, less he be spotted by his perceptive ally, and turns from the camp and fire. 

The first inhale of salt was expected, when he drew a first breath of air through the fabric. And yet his chest immediately began to protest, tightening up fast at the irritation it was somehow not prepared for, despite Drifter knowing very well it would be irritating. 

Still, it brings him to shaking, silent coughs the likes of the fit he had just had from his close water encounter only a few moments prior. Silent becomes not-so-silent when he can't bear to hold them deep in his gut, and more blood must rise as a result; it cannot even soak into his mask properly, because the cloth is already soaked through. His retreat stumbles to a halt against a tree.

By the time his body can manage to properly adjust to its air being filtered through the heavy salt in his mask, there is Guardian, hunched over at his side, waiting as the coughing recedes into raspy, wet sounding breath. 

“Hello, Drifter.” 

It is even, and calm, and yet weighty like the water soaked into his cloaks with concern and curiosity alike.

Relenting, Drifter just offers them a nod in return, one hand dug and clutched into the fabric of his tunic. It is wet, and while it is already a skin-tight fit, it clings uncomfortably from the dampness, which appears to trick his chest into thinking it still cannot fill with air. 

“Come on, now. Up.” It’s just as even and calm, an easy familiar tone, not without careful gentleness which also permeates into their actions as they help Drifter again find his feet.

Guardian keeps a hand settled easily on one of Drifter’s shoulders as to guide him back in the direction to the firepit, and the other one is ready but unmoving- prepared should Drifter return to a coughing fit or otherwise return to an unsteady collapse.

“Pardon me, but it appears you are absolutely  _ freezing _ .” Guardian intones with just a hint of teasing scold, “Don't tell me you have been swimming this late at night? And in the middle of winter, Drifter.”

The scowl Drifter gives them once he’s found himself seated near the gentle lick of flames is obviously enough to disprove the theory. Nonetheless, Guardian settles wordlessly near by, to one knee. They reach for a small pile of chopped wood, to feed their small fire larger. 

When Guardian then turns their attention away to makeshift spits on the opposite side of the fire roasting their own dinner, Drifter lets a low, quiet sigh escape himself. With a secret glance of longing at the meat as Guardian rotates the sticks it’s speared by, Drifter wonders just how close to the heat he himself can get without roasting his own flesh, in a hopes of drying out some of his gear and warming up his chilled skin.

With another scowl on his face, Drifter carefully unwinds the leather bag with his less-appetizing contents of salted greens, blooms, and tubers. 

Drifter stumbles up to his feet after a moment, kicking through the nearby dirt and sand and tree roots. Vaguely, he feels Guardian’s observation.

With satisfaction, Drifter returns not long with a few flatter stones- likely, bricks, from the underwater buildings. Thin and flat, perfect. He finds his way back to the fire and kneels down with a little huff, setting down his flat, white, weathered stones close to the heat of the fire. 

Drifter settles back into a sitting position, retrieving the leather bag he’d left, and begins emptying his greens, settling them out to dry properly n the stones, less they rot from the soggy salt water. Some things, like the leafier greens, have already been mussed into soggy mash from the water and the weight of the heavier plants like the tubers, and Drifter is forced to toss them away from camp; but regardless of that loss, he still has more than enough for one person’s meal. 

He settles his leather bag to dry, next to his collection of drying plants, as Guardian peruses Drifter’s work. 

“I was not actually aware there were so many edible plants in The East. I expected more of it would be poisonous. You are certain of all of your choices?”

Drifter gives a sharp nod, although he himself is not looking them over. He’s pulling the rest of his equipment from his belt, so that it might all dry properly, and is instead lying them out neatly next to the warm glow of heat (and yet far away enough, to avoid any plausible heat damage or stray smolders). 

His hud companion pings when Drifter makes a sharp hand motion to alert it, and quickly unfolds a neat, transparent screen. Still not quite looking from his work, Drifter makes a few one-handed motions, which his hud translates easily- if more choppy than when Drifter types a message directly onto it’s screen. 

With The Guardian, Drifter does not mind the loss of eloquence as he might someone else in central. He does not mind his speech coming out choppy via the translator.

_ Otter Folk taught.  _

“Ah.” Guardian answers simply, settling back to work the now higher-burning flames with a stick. Without much prompting, they move Drifter’s leather bag further from the fire, to prevent it from being scorched by a stray ember.

Drifter makes a couple more rough hand motions to his hud, sending a conspiratorial suspicious glance Guardian’s way. 

_ How did you get a deer out here? _

Guardian seems amused with Drifter’s suspicious sizing of them, although Drifter is not so sure how he can tell such a thing, as their body language does not shift much.

“I brought it with me, of course. Deer do not come so far out into The East, even marsh deer.” They answer, confirming Drifter’s suspicion. “I was plotting in advance to be so far east tonight, so I brought a good meal for while I was camped.”

Drifter gives his camping companion a curious look, now settled to watch the fire and the cooking food. 

“You see, it is the Winter Solstice. The tides, here in the east, they are at their lowest. This island, and the path you took here, are usually completely underwater. The only exception being tonight, and the island will disappear early tomorrow.”

This does not do much to settle any of Drifter’s quiet nerves. Somehow, Guardian must notice this, as they tip their helmet at him. 

“I would not suspect you to be bothered by this. You do, after all, look to have just gone for a swim yourself.” 

Drifter makes a distasteful expression, although he types neatly into his Hud screen,  _ I fell along the path. _ By way of explanation.

“Ah.” Guardian acknowledges. Like a betrayal, they sound amused. “Well, definitely try to dry yourself up. It is a cold night, and I do not find it wise to sleep in wet layers, Drifter.”

Drifter produces another quiet exhale. Once more:  _ how unfortunate _ .

For Guardian is not wrong, and Drifter is already still frightfully cold. And it is  _ very unwise  _ to sleep in wet clothes, and in winter no less, and let his body temperature plummet so low. Even were he not sick, most people might not wake up from such a silly blunder. And it is immensely unfortunate that he would have to decide that he will simply not be sleeping- because on the rare occurrences where Drifter shares a camp with Guardian, or is safely inside their shared housing, are the times that are usually safest to be sleeping. 

Two allies is safety in numbers. Not many numbers, but double his own. Having a partner should he find himself awakening to a group of Dirks is better than doing so alone. 

Although, strength in numbers once again does not protect against  _ unsleeping  _ danger, like the incoming tide that will swallow this island once again. Or the hypothermia of trying to sleep in his own soggy clothing. 

And he has not been undressed in front of another person in as long as he can remember. Not even The Apothecary, to treat wounds, and not even The Alternate, who has been his battle partner more times than he could count, and not even Guardian, who has time and time again proven to be a safe person when Drifter found himself in need of aid or otherwise unconscious. 

He has no interest in playing a repeat of the stories he hears. Be them mumbled warnings from The Drunk in town, on bated breaths like the man is afraid to speak in daylight among townspeople. Or gloating stories told between bragging guards that silence should Drifter suddenly be within their viewing range. Or the Bandit’s telling, staring gaze and the hidden smile in his shadows should drifter buy from his shop- or worse, when The Bandit is speaking of the same bragging story of beating and stealing from a man now known as The Drunk, and  _ not  _ lowering his voice when his gaze falls on the listening Drifter.

Danger never sleeps, and a waking danger is his own skin. Everyone in central knows he’s of the blue skinned people, or at the very least would not be surprised to learn such a thing. But something about never showing it past the thin slip of skin around his eyes has avoided trouble regarding it, through most if not all of his travels. As if that small bit of visible skin had never been proof enough to condemn him in civil society. 

That, and perhaps of course that they never see Drifter without his weapon, let alone coverings. Not even The Bandit would make a blatant threat, or raise a gun upon him, for The Bandit knows he would lose an arm for his trouble. Perhaps worse, too, if Drifter was in a bad mood during such a time.

If the Drifter was any slower, slower than the Bandit was a Quickdraw expert, then Drifter might have a tale much in line with the Drunk who warned him as to not let the people of central see Drifter vulnerable. But Drifter was still faster, even sick, then The Bandit could pull a trigger. And the Bandit knew it.

They  _ all _ knew it. People in central stopped talking, when they were talking about people like him. As long as he was there to hear it, they shut their mouths.

But, despite that all, he wasn't still alive because he liked to tempt danger for no reason whatsoever. He would stay in his covers, wet as they were, and would have to miss out on a good opportunity for a restful sleep.

So he met The Guardian’s concerned suggestion with unmoving silence and a sharp, uninterested gaze. And Guardian did not respond at all for their suggestion to have been discarded. 

“The deer is finished.” Guardian said instead, plucking a wooden stick of hastily-butchered deer meat from where it leaned into the roast of the flames. Lightly charred, and cooked warm through.

Drifter looked down, upon his now slightly-less soggy plants, and felt another escaping silent sigh. The tension of challenge he’d felt at the suggestion to derobe melted away, back to that plateau of disappointment. 

Drifter wasn't sure what animal he could have even been hoping for to catch. Surely, he had not been expecting a deer out this far. Maybe he’d hoped for some… injured bird? A… a turtle? His hopes were lost on him, frankly. 

“Drifter?” Guardian prompted, confused. 

Quite aware he was sulking, Drifter only shifted somewhat moodily in place. He signed a prompting  _ what? _ To his Companion Bot, but it’s ping of acknowledgement and displayed text were unnecessary; it was a simple enough sign that it was one Guardian had learned the meaning of already. Not that it was a particularly difficult sign to parse- even for someone who did not know he spoke with a language of hands, the open handed shrug could be parsed as a normal gesture.

“Did you want yours more well cooked…?” Guardian prompted more confused yet. Drifter looked up their way, and of course, there was the Guardian, holding one stick skewered with meat at him, although it had fallen uncertainly.

Drifter felt embarrassed for his sulking, but quickly typed out,  _ do you have enough for yourself? For the journey back to central?  _ Weary of somehow misinterpreting this sharing gesture for what it was.

Guardian huffed. “I should be flattered, I think, that you expect I can eat an entire Marsh Deer in two days. You must think I do much more work than I do to burn through meat like that.”

The falter in their offer of food has eased away at Drifter’s question, and raised for him to take. Drifter cautiously took the stick of freshly cooked meat, and felt the disappointment drift easily away like he’d tossed it out onto the nearby sea so that it might sail far away. 

If only so many of his problems could be sent away so easily. 

In response, Drifter promptly pushed one of his flat, heated tiles to the side; the fire-heated stone bit painfully into the tips of his fingers, but he didn’t pay it much mind even when his Companion Hub beeped an injury warning; It’s concerns of injury were overly sensitive, Drifter was even wearing gloves. Wet gloves. What more protection could one get?

No less, he made an even offering of his favorite of the tubers that had been settled closest to the fire, and should be relatively baked by their proximity to the flame by this point. 

They did not offer one another any other words as they ate in the companionable silence. The quiet was backdropped with the muted sounds of lapping waves on the beach and of small waves forming and breaking by the push of the wind, and that of the fire and it’s quiet crackling and heat-splitting wood. 

There were not even sounds of animal life, this far to the sea. Drifter stretched his senses, wondering if he would overhear a distant night-bird, a hooting owl, or a distant bark of a stray dog. Even a slap of a fish upon the ocean surface. 

But it was quiet and still, and almost ethereal, as Guardian seemed to pick away more and more into the slowly roasting plants despite Drifter’s distaste for the salt, and in exchange for their pickings, would offer another stick, then two, of skewered meat rested across the heated stones for Drifter to get to and savor. 

It was not an uncommon practice for them, not really. It just usually took place at home, in their shared building when they’d cross paths there. Guardian often brought home meat- either purchased from the butcher, or hunted themself from the woods or on a return from a trip. Drifter would open the door laden with fresh plants- others, medicinal, already sold to the Apothecary for the gearbits he needed to repair and restock his weapons and supplies. 

Drifter supposed this dynamic was often healthier for the two of them. Drifter never ate enough protein or iron for his lifestyle and illness, and Guardian seemed to only ever think of  _ getting  _ meat, forgetting about the rest of a better balance. 

It’s almost wistful of him to hope that their shared illness might just be that they both had horribly unhealthy diets, and that they might get healthier from fixing each other’s faults.

He knows it not true, but the wistful thought lingers as he chews, and Guardian steals another roasted heart of a leaf plant Drifter cannot name, but knows it edible- and according to the Otter that had shown it to him, good for dehydration, better than the brackish water or even the spring water from below.

The food disappeared into the gap of Guardian’s helmet, one at a time, in small pieces. Drifter found himself just the slightest jealous, each time he turned his head away so he might lower his own mask, to take another bite. 

He wondered if Guardian knew the blue skinned have sharp fangs. Most people seemed to think so, but only because they thought all of their teeth were pointed sharp like some sort of perfect nightmare. Then, Drifter supposed, he must know. Guardian had seen Drifter without the mask before, amidst deep coughing fits. Possibly even as early as when they’d first met, and Guardian had brought Drifter home. Possibly would have seen the whole of his face then, if not out of curiosity, then perhaps to give his unconscious self water, maybe. 

Rather wordlessly, what of the cooked food would keep for two days of journeying was carefully packed away for their respective journeys- meats and greens noticeably divided up evenly. 

Drifter carefully tended the fire, spreading the contents of its pit out so that it might stay low, and adding a bit more wood to keep it lit through the night, as Guardian cleared away the stones and the rounds of uncut wood to clear a space in the sand around their small camp.

Eventually, another hand fell on The Drifter’s shoulder. 

“Drifter.”

He looked over the same shoulder where the armored hand fell, prompting with the same questioning gesture as before that might easily be mistaken as a shrug. 

Guardian peered down on him, hunched enough that they could reach Drifter’s crouch. 

“Perhaps we should hang your cloaks? So that they might be dry by morning.”

That is immensely logical, Drifter knows. It does not even leave him any more exposed- his cloaks cover nothing more than his tunic and tights, All skin hidden away. And yet without that weight- heavier than ever with the water weighing it down on him- it feels like as much as a dangerous challenge as if he walked into the Bandit’s shop without wearing his cowl or mask. It might even  _ be  _ more revealing of himself than normal, with the cling of his still-damp clothes to his skin. 

The vibrant blue lights he knows to be Guardian’s own gaze stay pinned back on his own, ever watchful, ever perceptive. “Just hand them to me, I will hang them while you stay by the fire.” Too perceptive- mask or not, they can tell Drifter has begun to relent to their obvious wisdom. 

Drift nods, finally, feeling somewhat exasperated. But Guardian stands straight, stepping back as Drifter does the same. Patiently, they wait as Drifter unclasps the heavy fabrics; his body feels almost amazingly light as he takes their sodden weight from his shoulders, and rests them in Guardian’s outstretched hand. 

Guardian hesitates, before prompting, “Perhaps anything else you might be comfortable hanging for the night?” They only nod back evenly when Drifter raises a hand to stop the consideration as a final no. “Stay near the fire for the night. We can wash them of the salt when we leave The East, hopefully. You may even be able to get a quick bath in to wash yourself of all the salt, once we are close to home, and I can wash the rest for you. There’s a short area we might as well swim across, anyway, if you prefer to do some of the washing still clothed before we can get to privacy.”

Drifter prompts his Companion Hud and it chirps as Guardian begins to turn away with their idle chatter, catching their attention. Guardian observes the message hastily being typed on the screen as they watch it form.

_ We cannot go that way. _ And an even hastier  _ I will not swim. _

“...My apologies, it just appears you were uncomfortable with the salt. And I believe your sense of smell and breathing may be aggravated by the mineral, is it not?”

The soft clicking of more typing as Drifter’s fingers cross his hud screen quickly, the sound following his dancing fingers more gracefully than the sharp motions actually feel. 

_ Stay on the platforms while we return, or I will go a different way. _

Guardian raises their free hand, surprised, “Drifter, you are of course welcome to stay to the paths- or to go your own way, I will not stop you. I am afraid I do not understand- am I making an uncomfortable suggestion?”

Drifter repeats his previous line of text, quickly,  _ I will not swim _ , but then pauses, and clears the text before Guardian speaks.  _ I do not swim _ .

Guardian hesitates a moment longer, and very carefully, asks “Do you mean that you cannot? That is alright, I assure you.” Although they sound fairly surprised even as they say it. 

Drifter no less feels his own face, warm under the cold texture of his wet mask.  _ I can swim.  _ He refutes, easily.

And he can… sort of. 

It's not about an inability of movements. He can paddle and swim, and he can float when he is not wearing metal braces and armor.

Drifter can swim just fine… when the water is right. Not in rivers or lakes or the  _ forsaken ocean  _ of all places, absolutely not. He cannot swim in the waters of dungeons, or unfamiliar streams where he cannot see the stream bed. 

But he  _ can  _ swim. He’s been just fine and capable of swimming in baths or familiar water holes and particularly clear ponds or easy, slow-moving riverbeds with no currents. 

He… The Drifter just  _ doesn't  _ swim in huge oceanic lakes big enough to house entire cities. And have their own undercurrents and lots of creatures swimming about and deep holes that lead to underground rivers or spit out spring water.

Maybe it’s about not seeing the bottom. Maybe it's about being swept away. Maybe it's about the weight or the strength or the pull of so much water- and Drifter thinks it might be more that last one than anything. 

That maybe it's about the crushing weight of miles of water bearing down on his ribs. Maybe it's about no air to be found anywhere around him, no matter how much he chokes or coughs. Maybe it’s about the suffocating feeling of darkness in water so deep that you might never find your way to the surface, if you could even tell which way was up. Maybe it's about water, soaking into his mask, weighing him down and dragging him under, and filling his lungs to the brim until he can't just cough it up like when they fill with blood.

The Drifter becomes suddenly and immediately aware that his hands are trembling above the projections of letters, awaiting for his commands to type. And then further aware that he is in fact holding his breath, for no reason at all, and that he is lucky he has not started a fit of coughs with how harshly he forced himself to exhale the air he was holding in his chest. The exhale makes a raspy sort of sound he becomes certain even Guardian could hear.

“We do not need to swim to get back to central.” The Guardian says, easily, as though they did not hear it at all, or does not see the tremble in his fingers that Drifter is unable to stop as they hesitate to type. It goes unspoken, even though Drifter can see the faint glow of Guardians eyes staring at said trembling appendage. “Luckily, I am sure we will get back fine. The tides will not return until noon tomorrow at the earliest, so it shall be easy traveling in the morning.”

There’s a moment of quiet in which neither of them move, Guardian still holding Drifter’s soaked cloaks, and Drifter still staring at them, waiting. 

“Well, frankly, I don’t much like to swim either. What a relief- swimming in armor is not a thing I take lightly. I’m glad you’ve convinced me.”

Drifter feels a small, amused huff shake his shoulders once, and Guardian answers it with a huff of his own. 

“Get back to the fireside. Before you grow any icicles. No one finds icicles fashionable outside of the North Zone, Drifter.”

Drifter shakes his head in amused acknowledgment, and carefully returns to sit by the fire as Guardian hangs his cloak in the trees.

Drifter does not sleep that night, but neither did the danger of the tide threatening to come in. He can sleep in central, when he’s back in the Guardian’s home and able to switch out his gear for a dry set. 


End file.
